Iron Behind the Velvet - Chapter 8

In the Earth of Your Soul, In the Cross of Your Arms 1

(a short passage of moderate adult content at the end of the chapter)

Catherine slipped through the open wedge, the once-secret door in the wall to their private rooms. In the alcove behind the stained glass window, long-burning candles glimmered, their attendance a gift from Mary, perhaps from Jamie or Sara – her welcome.

Darkness, pushed back by love.

The pipes and their messaging reversed at their entryway, leaving their chambers hushed. At the top of the stairwell, her hand on the switchback of rusted iron, she listened for any word meant for her. Their first morning together, entwined with him, she'd lifted her head from his shoulder. So quiet, she'd marveled and he'd murmured agreement, urging her cheek again to his heart, their separation, even that single inch, unendurable. Now this distance ... She sighed and descended the steps, longing for what he knew, that channeled pulse between them.

At this late hour the strange slant of light offered only a flicker of illumination to the atrium floor. She lit the large torches at the gallery walls and at the base of the curved stairs and those flanking the archway to the bath and to the library ... and in the bathing chamber. The pillar candles there were scented with patchouli and sandalwood, stained a deep black pearl. The tall flames leapt up, the scent spiraled wild and sensuous ... Her heart quickened and she felt a flush at her breast, a rhythmic pounding in her blood, a feeling of breathlessness ... The suddenness of it stunned her.

“He's coming back?” She rushed into the atrium, wishing, fully expecting to see him there. She bent at the waist, her hand on her heart to harness it. A brightness bloomed behind her eyelids – their bond, like the sun, a thousand rays in her soul. She felt his presence drawing nearer, heard the echo of thudding footfalls in a distant corridor ... and then ... a descent, a sense of resignation, his frustration ... her own.


"What? What is it, Mouse?" He fought to keep exasperation from his voice.

"Kanin. Needs you."

"Did he send you for me?"

"Better come."

Vincent felt the fire in his spirit, in his loins, fall. One deep breath in ... and out … He could not let Kanin go. The turn made to go back, his stride was long and emphatic. Mouse was forced to scurry to keep up.

“Sorry, Vincent. Had to find you.”

"It is ... no matter. Just tell me.”

“Kanin and Damien. Started yelling.”

“About what?”

“About the plans. About where to make the rockfall. About ... everything.”

“And could they not settle their differences on their own?”

“Damien walked away. Kanin kept yelling. Stomped off.”

“Where's Kanin now? Do you know?”

“Not sure. He said, manage by ourselves.”

His steps slowed. He should find Kanin, talk with him, make him see all that he had in his possession, all he stood to lose. He clenched a mental fist around the shirttails of his patience. Afterward, there might still be time ...


… and perhaps he's returned.

A faint hope fueled his lope into camp, but one glance snuffed that lingering flame. The week had been long, everyone with an ache or contusion to nurse, each missing his own bed and more satisfying meals. Now the crew bunched together in knots, Kanin's name skipping like a stone on water group to group. Fed up, someone grumbled. Now what? another muttered. Vincent crouched by the fire to listen.

Not long after he'd left camp, word came from the farthest-flung lookout of an intrusion past the most northwestern junction of upper-level tunnels. Three men left painted marks at each intersection to guide themselves out ... or in again, their plan to return to explore further overheard. After the strangers retreated, the sentries chipped away the blazes, but their efforts could not adequately address the breach.

Damien suggested they drop a temporary rockfall at the next work site and move west toward the riverside tunnels, a proposal out of sequence in Kanin’s carefully mapped-out plans. Calmly enough at first, Kanin protested, and Damien tried to reason with him, retrieving the maps, laying them flat and moving stones like chess pieces over the drawings. But as others took up Damien's idea, Kanin lost his temper and lectured and chastised until, bristling with annoyance, they turned away from him, the Silence spontaneously imposed. Kanin marched into the tunnels and had not yet returned.

The plans spread on the worktable, he considered the possible changes. “I agree," he said. "We should rework the junction nearest the encroachments first, but I think the project must accelerate. We’ll need two crews, one to work west, another to move north into the park, then east along the border. That will mean ...”

“We know,” Esther said. “We’ve been talking about that and we all agree. When the relief crew gets here, we’ll divide up. We’re all staying.”

Vincent toed the ground, contemplating the alternatives in the sweep of dust under his foot. Then, raising his head, he studied each man, each woman ... searched their spirits. To the last, they were tired after just one week, the tasks demanding and unfamiliar, yet he knew – they would push on, push themselves. To the last, they were committed.

He nodded and rose. “You should rest now, all of you. I’ll find Kanin, tell him what we've decided ... and bring him back.”

Almost as one, the crew sighed in relief and exhaustion. No one argued for late night storytelling or hot tea or for excursions up top. Bedrolls were unfurled; sweaters bunched to pillows. In minutes, only the two on first watch were awake. At the nearest pipe, Vincent tapped out his questions for the scattered sentries and soon, he had his answer.


Kanin was close enough, just outside their entry into Woodlawn Cemetery, yet the distance snagged at Vincent's feet. Preoccupied by the coming conversation, struggling with impatience, he stumbled more than once, thumping his already bruised shoulders on rocky points. Without a settled speech, he eased open the sliding stone in the floor of the groundskeeper's hut, dodged the hoses coiled and hung from the crossbeams on his way to the outside door. He could see Kanin just across the grassy way on the steps of a great mausoleum, his head bowed into his hands, all but lost in the shadows.

Vincent stood in a deeper shade. His thoughts, undeniable, were for himself, of his head cradled against Catherine’s soft breast, of her gentle hand stroking his hair, of his ragged breath evened with hers in sleep. But then … Olivia, her dark, bewildered eyes ... and Luke, his father suddenly and too long a bedtime story ... a tiny daughter unfamiliar with Kanin’s strong and comforting hand. He had no choice. He would try once more to bring Kanin home.

The years had not dulled the memory of his one visit here – Stuart and Noah huddled with him at this very door, shivering with curiosity and daring. This place was off-limits to them, at least at night, the graveyard closed after dark to visitors, the watchmen diligent in their patrols. But they'd told him of the spired and turreted mausoleums, of the statues so pensive, so tender they must surely be goddesses turned to stone by a spell, a spell that might someday be lifted so they could dance beneath the stars.

Perhaps tonight, some magic might indeed be wrought – a stone-cased heart freed.

He called to him from the stoop and Kanin raised his head. Then in silent stride, Vincent swept across the spring lawn, up the ledge-stone steps to a niche flanked by sculpted angels, deep within the pillared loggia.

“You here to deliver a sermon, Vincent?” Kanin gestured toward the statues.

“No sermon. An offer to listen. Perhaps some words of truth. A friend, always, Kanin.”

“A friend. Right. I’m running short of those lately.”

“By your choosing.”

“Some of your words of truth, Vincent?”

“What is it you want, Kanin?”

“What do I want? What do I want?" Kanin sagged over his knees. "What I want," he whispered. "I can never have again.”

“You should go home, home to Olivia, home to your son and daughter. Be with your wife. We can manage here.”

“Of course you can manage. I’m not necessary ... to you or to them.”

“That's not true, Kanin. I watched Olivia grieve for you, long for you. I heard her tell Luke about the day he was born, how you held him first against your heart, about the games you played together, of the adventures you will have. You are … more than necessary. Go home.”

“How can I? How can she bear to even look at me? Can you understand that, Vincent?”

The words coiled in the air, a serpent of doubt. Vile memory filled his thoughts, and images swirled unbidden, fanged and ugly. “Yes," he said, his voice clotted with pain. "I can understand.”

Kanin’s head snapped up. The tension grew in the blackness; the minutes passed ...

“What ... who do you think she sees when she looks at you?” Vincent asked.

Kanin shook his head. The moonlight through the trees and spires accentuated the sorrows of his face. “What she sees ... is a liar. Every morning, I woke up and ... chose ... to lie to her, day after day. How can she have faith in me, how can she count on me ever again? And without that, how can I live?”

“Olivia has forgiven you, Kanin. The boy’s mother has forgiven you. We hoped you would forgive yourself.”

Don’t you see, Vincent! I don’t want to be that kind of man ... a man who needs that much forgiving!”

Vincent stepped from the shadows and sat down on the steps, his posture a mirror, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed over his clasped hands. After a long moment, he tipped his head, imagining the granite guardians, the weeping marble seraphs circled before them held a single celestial breath. “Kanin," he said. "How can we be ... any other way?”

Anguish pulled at his features, a terrible gravity. “Why should she have to bear that for the love of me? How can I ask her to do it?”

“You don't ask; you can only accept. Because she's the woman who knows you. She's the woman who nourishes your daughter at her breast, who sings your son to sleep at night. Do you not sense the iron of her spine, in the ribs that shelter her great heart? She did not break, Kanin. She grew stronger.”

Kanin’s shoulders heaved and from him came a strangled, guttural sound – a man’s uncommon tears, years of them.

Clouds moved in, veiling the moonlight, masking the hour. Kanin trolled his own nameless river, but his breathing calmed and at length, Vincent sensed a turn, a readiness. The winds quickened. There was a flash of lightning and its close-following thunder. He clasped Kanin's shoulder, tightened his grip.

“We should get below.” Kanin rubbed his face. “It’s late and tomorrow ...”

“Damien’s idea is a good one, to move west immediately,” Vincent said.

“It is. I was ...”

“It doesn’t matter. Everyone understands.”

“I can’t count on that forever, Vincent. One day, I’ll go too far ...”

“Yes, you will ... if that's your plan.”

“Plans ... what’s that old saying? It’s an ill plan that cannot weather change.” Lightning flashed again; a gentle rain began. “Speaking of weather ...” Kanin gestured toward the old stone hut that harbored their doorway Below.

“You should go home tonight, Kanin.”

“There’s too much work. I can’t.”

“You can. This site will be finished tomorrow and everyone's agreed to stay on after the relief arrives. We’ll split into two crews, work both locations. Damien can lead the work tomorrow. Tonight, you'll do more good at home.”

“I have to stay. I have to ... protect them. I have to do this, at least.” Kanin’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Besides, it’s late. What is it, midnight?

“You could take the subway. I’ll go with you. We’ll walk back together early tomorrow morning.”

“The subway?” Kanin laughed. “How ... ? You’re serious? Aren’t you getting a little old for that?”

“I want to go home. I would appreciate your company on the journey.”

“You’d be making sure I don't chicken out.” Kanin stared at his shoe tips. “I don’t know what to say to her, how to ... explain myself.”

“Then say nothing.”

“Nothing?” Kanin blew out a breath and nodded. “All right.” He nodded again. “All right.”

Near the station, Vincent veered down a narrow passage, leaving his companion to walk on alone. From his hidden, high vantage point further down the tracks, he watched Kanin enter a car, watched the door slide shut, and he began the count that would mark the time to jump ...

He left Kanin at the junction and entered their private rooms through the deeper tunnels. He was dusty and bruised and bone-weary. He draped his cloak over a chair in the atrium. Inside the mirrored room, a beacon to him, she was perhaps deep within a dream. He should shower first, but there was so little time, only these few precious hours stolen from duty. He removed his boots and unfastened his leather jerkin and stole to her bedside.

She slept curled around a pillow. On the table, a single candle burned low, casting flickering shadows on the smoky crystalline castle – his gift – and on her face. He sank into the down of the bed, working to still his suddenly uneven breath. She stirred, a slight shift of shoulder, the heavy covers slipping away. Her bare skin glowed in the candlelight and he fought an urge to gather the quilts in his fist and pull them lower. Instead, he reached to brush an errant strand of hair from her eyes.

“Vincent," she whispered. "You’ve come home. I thought you might.”

“I didn’t want to wake you, Catherine.”

“You didn’t?” she asked, with the slow smile he loved.

“It’s late.”

Watchful, she said nothing.

“I brought Kanin home.”

“That’s good.”

“Catherine, I sensed such ... joy in you today ... anticipation.” He looked down. “I wanted to share it.”

“And I want to tell you ... but it is late.”

She reached for his hand, threading her fingers through his. The sight of it, of their joining, his peculiarities, her sureness, held him spellbound for a time.

“I ... I should bathe. You need ... to sleep.”

As he started to rise from the bed, she sat up. The bedclothes fell to her waist and he saw that she was naked.

Don’t go.” She swiveled to her knees and pulled him to her, fitting herself to his back with her cheek on his shoulder. She pushed aside his hair and then her mouth was hot on his neck, behind his ear. “Don’t go.”

She moved her hands down his arms and under them, over his ribs to his chest, and lower, down his taut stomach and onto his thighs. Through his layered clothing, he could feel the heat from her body and he could smell her. With her hands and her breath and with her voice – a coo at his ear, a murmur of delight – she lulled him to a trance. She tasted the skin of his throat. A shuddery breath released ... his grip on the quilts loosened. She pulled the hem of his sweater up and stripped him of it and reached again for his undershirt. And then her breasts were warm against his back and her hands brushed the silky hair of his abdomen.

“Catherine ...”

“Say nothing, Vincent. Nothing.”

She trailed her fingers along his shoulder blades, wincing when she saw the marks, mottled and dark beneath his rose-gold color. Her lips sorrowed each bruise.

“You have to be careful, Vincent. I need you.”

As if struck again with an errant beam or a falling rock, he gasped at the velvet pitch of her voice. “Catherine ...”

Say nothing.”

She pulled away from him but took his arm, tugging him with her into the pillows. His eyes traveled her body, his hungry gaze lodging in her most intimate hollows. Careful ... careful ... he cautioned his wild blood. He stretched out beside her and turned to her, but she urged him instead onto his back. Rising to her knees again, she pushed gently at his shoulders, held him still without words until she felt him acquiesce. Her eyes, riveted to his, pinned him with her will and she held him until the rigidity left his limbs, until his doubts subsided ... and he was hers, stunned again by her acceptance, by her approval.

“You’re so tired, Vincent. I can see it. Don’t worry. Don’t think.”

She brushed the hair from his face and began the tenderest massage – light touches at his temples, circles at the hinge of his jaw and behind his ears. Gentle strokes eased the tendons in his neck and the flats of her hands moved smoothly over his collarbone. Her grip was strong into the muscles of his shoulders. She kneaded the tension from his forearm and from his hand, pressured his roughened palm, stroked to the tip of each finger. The scent of lavender and mint, stirred from their bedding, cleared the ache behind his eyes. She cared for him, smoothing the jagged and the sharp, turning his sinewed, solid core into supple clay. A simple miracle, her reverent touch to his body, his shame and fears pushed back, his humanness soaring, the circle whole ...

With her, he felt beautiful.

Her lips touched his. His response, a sharp intake of breath, parted the seam of his mouth. Her tongue traced inside his lower lip and touched his sharpest teeth and withdrew, and teased the cleft and withdrew. Her next kiss was deeper and his tongue began to parry hers in growing urgency until she broke from him again.

She leaned back, kneeling beside him still. She moved her thumbs across his mouth and her fingers down his throat and over the muscles of his chest to the buttons of his pants. She unfastened them … the first … the second … the third ... and inched the fabric past his hips and down his legs. He was erect and needful, his scent evident even to himself, earthy and salty. She unfolded along his body, straddling him, supporting herself above him until he brought her low ... entered her with one slow, exquisite thrust. His hands on her hips ... forward and back, and forward again. Arching to her, his breath guttural and rattling deep in his throat, he drew her down with a growling imperative.

In the deepest reach of his spirit, her mind brushed his as a fluttering of wings, the tickling of a feather. A light brightened behind his eyes. Everything was brilliant and clear, rhythmic and loud. He could see the shimmer of heat from their bodies, hot rubied sparks at the indent of his fingertips, could hear their two raging hearts find the pace of one. At this zenith, more than crest or crown or culmination, there was a coalescence, a melding of spirits, and finally a collapse deep into sleep, first hers and when he was sure ... his.


In the morning when she awoke, he was gone. But it had not been a dream, for there was a newly lit candle at her bedside and a folded note in the hollow of his pillow.

There was thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit.
There were grief and ruins, and you were the miracle.

Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me
in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms. 2


1. Pablo Neruda. A Song of Despair. 1924
2. Ibid.

click HERE for Chapter 9.


Anonymous said...


You've really got a way with the romance scenes. This one is so sweet and sensual.


Krista said...

You know, I think all your chapters are fantastic, revised or not. But this one...whoa. You managed to improve upon something that was already pretty amazing to begin with. I'm impressed. :-D

Great job, Carole. :)